Rememberance in Fragments
by Official .the. Blah
Summary: "Tell me, mon petite Giry: how does it feel to lose your talent?" "S'il vous plait...let go...I...can't breathe..." "I'm not asking you to breathe, Marguerite...I'm asking you to dance." Meg suffers a concussion and cannot remember her ballet. The Phantom himself helps her reach into the vastness of her mind to reclaim her lost talent, finding a friend in someone least expected.


_**A/N**__: _Ŏla! This story was originally on Wattpad, but since nobody was reading it, I decided to move it here. It is actually fanfiction, so it makes more sense to put it here than on Wattpad. These events are set a few months before the events in ALW's 2004 movie, with a slight plot-change right at the end. Don't forget to review!

So sudden was the accident, so sudden that the grace of one of the most delicate ballerinas was stomped out by the sheer force of gravity...so sudden was she so silent. Marguerite Giry was now being hurtled towards the closest clinic in Pàris in the most unconscious of states, barley able to listen to the quiet pleas her Maman was whispering to her bleeding face, her senses barley registering the feel of a motherly grasp over the pain emitted from the twisted and mangled flesh and bone beneath her leaking skin.

Jolt after painful jolt, the coach driver was almost certain that his panicked driving skills would turn the Hospital-marked carriage into a hearse and was preparing himself for a line of curses from the close-to-bereft mother. The horse gave a pained whinie as he pulled on the strained reins to halt the steed at the entrance to the _Cliniquè de Pàris_, and the driver found himself panting and unable to speak to the approaching nurses; he pointed to the coach as a wide-eyed Madamè Giry thrust the door open and commanded the nurses to take Meg's body and heal it.

Not too far away, in the foundations of the Opéra Populaire, the Phantom himself circled the tied up Prop Manager who was desperately crying out, "Accident! I swear, it was an accident!" And no doubt that it was; it was clear that the rope supporting the concrete angel was tired and withered with careless usage, but such mismanagement would not go unpunished in HIS Opèra House. So swiftly was the finger taken off that the manager almost forgot to scream...almost.

One and a half daunting weeks later, the ballet troupè held their breath as a battered but bandaged Meg and her mother once again entered the halls of the Opèra. The Madamè hissed away those who approached their friend to embrace and converse with her on the strict instruction of the doctor that although the physical injuries were almost completely healed, the unfortunate injury her mind sustained would need time to heal. Yes, their dear Meg had suffered a concussion, and a large one at that according to the Medics. Even the slightest bit of social pressure on her damaged neural passageways could result in devastating consequence.

Slowly, noticeably surrounded by her unremembered friends, a trans-like Meg journeyed with her mother to her dorm and to her bed where she almost instantly fell asleep. Antoinette stole one last glance at her sleeping offspring before she returned to her group of adoptive daughters to make up for nearly two weeks worth of training missed, switching her demeanor from that of motherly worry to the strict persona of the ballet concierge: Madamè Giry.

Unbeknownst to her, while she returned to her rats to make up for 10 days missed of teaching, the Phantom maneuvered himself through rafters to reach the ballet dormitories to where the sleeping mademoiselle lay. He wandered what he was doing there in daylight, silently staring at her from the edge of the bed; she was his unknowing love's best friend and only caring acquaintance's daughter, but it wasn't as if he owed her anything. For minutes he stared, studying her uncomfortably sleeping features before he shook his head, deposited his letter and left silently.

Meg woke with a sweat developing on her cramped chest and looked around. Although it was dark, she could still hear the pounding of her mother's cane on the wooden stage and the shrill voice of the leaving Carlotta: she was back at the _Populaire_. However, panic started to rise in her throat as she battled for recollection of how she got from dancing with her own perfection on the stage (which felt like an eternity ago) to sleeping in her bed. _Jhesus Maria, has my mind been plagued with insanity?_

In desperate attempt to reach her mother, she pulled back the duvet but forgot the feuille, and the floor rushed up to meet her. The pain was forgotten as a result of the adrenaline pumping through her veins, but the loud thump unceremoniously replaced the noise of her rapid heartbeats in her ears, and impulsively she groaned as she silently reprimanded herself for her clumsiness. Using her small bedside table to hoist herself up off the mocking ground, she weakly pulled herself up to her respectable height, a faint blush on her cheeks.

Still cursing her unevenness, her eyes skidded past the parchment on the table, her name intricately inked onto the paper. Steadying herself with one hand, she used her other to pick up the envelope and studied it. Hesitantly, almost reluctantly, she turned the untrusting paper around to scratch off the red blotch of wax shaped like a skull and raggedly pulled the fruit of the one-sided conversation out of its shell:

_Dear Marguerite_

_I trust that you are having a speedy recovery, and would like to inform of my assurance that such an incident will not be repeated upon you or any of your troupe. The matter has been dealt with and the bouffon tromper will not be as clumsy again._

_I hope to see back on the stage very soon and wish you the best of charm for your upcoming performance of Joanne d'Arc. Practice hard, Madamosielle Giry and do not squander your talent with the excuse of injury; I will not permit such action in my Opèra._

_I am forever your obedient servant_

_O.G._

Pain..lots of pain; the letter tore at her empty-feeling soul: talent…practice…performance? Anguish and fear left proverbial bullet holes in her already aching chest, her eyes practically popping out from her sockets: she had no remembrance of her gift and skill. The jitty mind in her skull leapt and produced a headache; uncontrollable jolts racked her body and left the note on the floor and her on her toes, alert and trying to rekindle her grace…but to no avail. Her feet danced with each other in the clumsiest fashion and her arms flailed as if she were drowning. No rhythm graced her flesh, no timing filled out her stance: imperfection of a once perfection.

Breathe quickened, pulse racing, feet banging across the wooden floor boards, a hurting Meg rushed around the room looking for the camouflaged door. She was trapped: mentally and physically unable to escape a boxing prison. Imagined fists beat at her bones and eventually left her throbbing on the floor, breathe clipped and short, with popping eyes full of unshed tears. Some gracious spirit felt pity on her aching soul and gently pulled a blanket of unconsciousness over her and left her there until gasps lead her mother to her.


End file.
